The Parasite
by Starbrigid
Summary: A possible additional chapter of Tale of Two Cities, ch. 17 of book 2. Carton realizes what his fate is to be and begins his change. Written in Dickens' style.


Laurie Kladky

1/16/04

  
  


Chapter 17

The Parasite

  
  


"I will be killed by you."

And the words echoed, remaining, continuing on, the new infestation, new disease of that which is already infected. Sydney Carton knew what he was, had seen it in the vision of himself, reflected in the startled goddess that had been Lucie's eyes, her beauty of the soul crying out as his tarnished presence reached for hers and pulled away all at once. Humans were the most profound mysteries in the world to each other, the fact was supposed to be, the way the Others saw it, but Sydney lived now as if seeing through everything, through Lucie's compassion, Darnay's charming innocence, Mr. Lorry's flat sagacity, Dr. Manette's hidden self-destruction, a little bit like his. He perceived minutely a vision of himself, the ruin he was, the mediocrity he'd resigned himself to. In the bottom of a bottle he found it time and time again, inside Stryver's lazy words, the perverse beast he had chained himself to, and he truly understood the entity called the self, which a person may have become, or might have remained inside that person, fought against again and again in the deepest hollows of eternity while the Others see nothing, softly smiling.

He saw, and understood, and went on, with the weight of the blessing Lucie had given him, and his blessing to her pressing on his shoulders and inside his chest and the two wishes becoming the same like he and Darnay were the same and infinitely different. She was not to send him from her sight, and he was to love her forever, and live herewith through her life, and do anything she might need him to. But words were only words, semantics and meaningless utterances and promises not based upon any sort of tomorrow. He did not change, not yet, there was none of that change he knew he would undergo in his heart after having been touched by happiness for a small moment, touched with a change for redemption, because words were only words, and he saw no tomorrow, saw no future for the man named Sydney Carton but despair.

He went to see Darnay, the man who was to become one with his tender love and everything, the man who knew nothing of Carton and cared nothing, a narrow gaze and a narrow personage. It was electrifying in an entirely different way than being with his goddess was, a constant risk of revealing too much, of letting the person he really was show, a man even more strange and dark than the obscene countenance he presented to the world. Sydney set eyes upon Darnay, and surprisingly enough, there was no choking bitterness in his incited by the other man's presence, no sighs came from in, nothing of the word jealousy or the color green sparking then. For Sydney saw in gold now, these days, like Darnay saw in brilliant color, and their words were kept caged.

"Darnay! A word, if you please." The understanding in Sydney's mind was held, somehow, at the notion that this was the last time he ever would see the other man.

The response given was an obliging, "Of course." A courtly nod, and the Frenchman had sat himself at the table, reclining back, not expecting very much. It was hard for Carton to remove his eyes from him, this better version of himself. He thought he might be fascinated with Darnay, too, like and unlike what he now knew was his love, his pure, uncharacteristic love for Lucie. Perhaps devotion would manifest as well in this way, a new love, for wide-eyed intellect and the smell of fresh wildflowers left in his hair from Her. He might already have pictured them together, picturesque, a kiss held in the burning sunlight.

"Shall you like me any better, then?" Carton spoke, and the words seemed to echo, an unaccustomed, a recklessness. He felt drunk, Darnay made him drunk, made him angry, made him think, a sort of hope and fellowship spinning around such a lovely naive head.

Darnay had no notion in his mind as to how he should answer, Carton a thorough mystery to him, and an undesirable fragment of a such a thing in addition. A shadow of recklessness and brooding and false laughter there, laughter at a lord's supper in the face of salvation, for what a life to be saved indeed! Finally he spoke. "You are a friend of this family, and I regard you as such, Mr. Carton."

Carton could barely see his reflection within Darnay's eyes, dark pupils tiny in the glare from the nearby window, and he felt very intoxicated, felt Lucie's sympathetic smile fade, weaken in his mind. He felt as though- pathos was practically flowing out of him, a river spinning, weaving itself in the gentle wind and unseen streetlight, reaching around Darnay and falling back. "And aye, that is supposed to mean very little, aye?"

Darnay shook his head, and then Carton was gone like a snake, the retreat of that monstrosity known as the second son by those who might find a bit of ghastly irreverence where they would. Darnay's thoughts returned to Lucie, as did Carton's, and the forced symbiosis, the invisible parasite clenched on Darnay breathed out a delicious sigh.

Carton passed by the shadowy Manette house again later that day, lumbering past on an errand for Stryver, for so was his claim, should anyone think to inquire of him as to the reason for his midday promenade. He met the cool eyes of Miss Pross there at the door, full of assumptions, haughtily dismissive, and, coincidentally enough, completely astute in their evaluation of his intentions. Yes, Carton thought, truthfully, here I am, a slovenly open-jawed predator, come to devour the heart of Snow White, and I am a frog, kissed by the princess and changed not to a prince but a man in its place. Had he been different, he might have acknowledged Miss Pross, admired the stout brick wall of a woman before him, an ugly duckling content to be so in the shadow of a ladybird's flight. But Sydney's thoughts, turned to a single mind, focused on Lucie, and as always so overflowing with himself, would have never strayed in such a way. His mind was only for the swan Medusa resting within the fortress, an unspeakable horror and a wondrous joy nonetheless to those who caught their eyes falling heavily on her sacred, forbidden face, and lo! we are stone...

In that moment, Sydney truly gave his blessing to her. Be happy with Darnay, and the smile and compassion you have shown me will stay, and you will continue being the gentle woman I adore. I would not wish someone like you to become... like me.

He returned to Stryver that evening, settling in to their normal Bacchalanian pursuits, and while Stryver drowned himself in liquid gold as he always did, Carton very drank little, at least at first, for the taste was almost nauseating to him, turning inside his stomach. His eyes closed, a strange taint weighed upon him from this, a new burden. Stryver didn't notice his companion, seemingly about to retch, choke on the taste of his own mouth, Carton's keeper beginning a rant on the shameful, unholy shallowness and wantonness of a certain Lucie Manette. Eyes and ears clouded, covered, Carton registered not a single fragment of it, sinking slowly into the quicksand that was his consciousness- sun all black, wildflowers turning to roses to red camellias, heads falling off one by one into snow, blood that was liquid gold, too, and vengeance for nothing at all in either of the two cities that Carton stared up into from beneath.

Perhaps there was goodness inside such a hollow shell of a man, something to be gifted to a world which had so carelessly forsaken the subject thus, but for the moment, there was only the flow of the bottle and the tide of the words, and he was soaring, soaring over the entire world, not understanding himself or what he was to do or be, and he fell, darkness overwhelming him, until his vision was obfuscated by the unfurling night, tears falling from a pitch black sky on his behalf, and a changed man, he knew no more.

"I will be killed by you."

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
